


distant

by ThirstyForRed



Series: Blarnis'lan - Cornflower Girl [1]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, Solavellan, Well of Sorrows (Dragon Age), out of spite
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-22
Updated: 2019-07-22
Packaged: 2020-07-10 21:24:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19912447
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThirstyForRed/pseuds/ThirstyForRed
Summary: Original Prompt by anonymous over at dapromptexchange.tumblr.com:"Almost entirely out of spite, Lavellan paints over Solas’ fresco in the rotunda. What does she paint instead?"





	distant

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [zimno](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19939591) by [ThirstyForRed](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThirstyForRed/pseuds/ThirstyForRed). 



It was only a few weeks after this great battle, the one with dragons, the eruption of magic and drilling of the hole in the Veil of the world. A few weeks spent hiding at the top of the tower, licking the wounds and pretending that every Savior, hero, would behave the same way. But it's so hard to understand all of the things that happened in only a year - to stop dreaming about Corypheus eyes, his claws and words, so certain, so unhesitant but senseless anyway. His certainty that although he will lose and fall on his knees in front of the Inquisition, he has already managed to touch divinity. That he, himself is anointed. Like one of the Gods.

Lavellan knows, of course, she is reasonable, that his words were only skillfully crafted lies. That the Darkspawn never was any of things he proclaimed to be. The knowledge of the Well of Sorrows thunders in her ears, laughing at his efforts. Fool - that's what they call him. ' _ Whoever never felt the Gods on their lips does not know the real taste of the divine! _ ' As if they knew what they are talking about.

But spring is here, a time of growth, prosperity, and repair, and no one cares about the death and destruction, or even the Inquisitor, who creeps up against the walls of her own fortress as if she was a wanted apostate. Hunted by templars and their dogs. (Which would be true if only she was less fortunate. Or more, according to the Well. Lavellan rarely agrees with the ghosts in her mind.)

She creeps around her own home because she has a broken heart. And it's both painfully tragic and just... embarrassing. Pathetic. Let's leave it at that.

His name was Solas and he committed many crimes for which he can not be judged - it would require confessing all of the secrets of their relationship. The way he kissed her in the forest's groves and under the cover of the nights. The way she held his hand as if he was her greatest treasure. Sweet whispers and notes in elvhen. The sound of their harmonizing magic and dreams they weaved together in the Fade. All these evidence of his guilt are too personal, too intimate to allow a public process. Not to mention that Solas left without a trace, and even the Templars' executors wouldn't able to find him.

That's why now, after these few weeks spent on crying and swearing at the elf, Lavellan is going to see the only memento he left behind. An unfinished fresco - because he couldn't leave anything untouched, perfect. Not barring his mark, scar left by him. 

For some time the Inquisitor is considering just finishing it. She could do it, even only by herself. The style of the fresco is not so complicated, and on the rest on the white plaster, you can still see a thin sketch outline. Even all dyes, brushes and putty are still in place, ready to be used, exploited.

However, whispers a small voice Lavellan's head, that would be synonymous to forgiveness. (Recently, it's harder and harder to distinguish how much of this spite has always been there, inside her, and how much comes from the Well.)

She runs her hand over the porous wall, awaiting a finish, the ending. It was supposed to picture her final victory, the last chapter in the history of the Dalish Inquisitor. Dragon and sword, facing each other, opposing, static. In his mind, which of them would symbolize his beloved Lavellan? The sword, at the Templar's belt and even on the banners of the Inquisition, still having more in common with the Chantry than the Herald? Or maybe a Dragon, a beast that seems immensely powerful, but easily controlled with the right word, gesture, information?

Lavellan knows that she is none of these things, that she is something else - a bowl, a vessel, full of salty tears and forgotten memories. The Well in her blood trembles every time she uses her magic.

(For some reason, Solas could not accept it. As if he really thought that anyone except the Dalish had the right to the knowledge of the fallen Arlathan. Perhaps it would make more sense if he wanted it for himself, to gain power that previously he could only dream of. But if his reaction at the Temple of Mythal means anything, he never wanted such a thing. He called for her, shouted her name as if she were a lamb going to the slaughter. As if he was the one getting hurt, alienated.)

She runs a hand over the wall, barely touching it with her fingertips. Like one of the Forgotten Ones - bringing ruin with the mere thought and desire, uncaring and unyielding. Touched plaster crumbles under her fingers and falls off the wall, leaving only frosty leaves behind. Large patches fall off the entire height of the walls, breaking on the stone floor. Just like Geldauran wrote on the walls of his icy cell. 'Those with will gain title not by nature but by deed. There are no gods - I refuse those who would exert will upon me! Their pride will consume them, and I will claim power of my own, apart from them.'

The fresco on the first floor of the rotunda is destroyed, eviscerated. However, the walls which it hid a few moments ago are not naked at all, they shine with white and cold. Frost twists in the shape of flowers, leaves, and forest. Blooming bushes and wild animals, hares, foxes, shrikes, and the halla. Hanal'ghilan, the golden halla. Forest, that doesn't remember Solas, his pride, that he's not allowed to.

Lavellan knows this grove - she has seen it in her dreams so many times. This is the place where her clan lived, where she grew up and learned magic. Where she hunted and dreamed the first voyages through the Fade. Where for the first time she froze the bush of crystal grace into a real crystal. A winter forest she won't visit again - no when there's no one alive there anymore.

_ 'Here lies the winter forest.' _ The well in her soul howls.  _ 'Water hears, understands, forgives. But the ice... The ice never forgets - it torments, seeks, slashes.' _


End file.
